Chapter 8: I Wish I Felt Nothing
It's better 'cause nobody knows you
When no one's your friend
It's better 'cause nobody leaves you
So you turned your back
On a world that you could never have
'Cause your heart's been cracked
And everyone else's is goin' mad
But I hear voices
And I see colors
But I wish I felt nothing
Then it might be easy for me
Like it is for you.
"I Wish I Felt Nothing" - Jakob Dylan
I was a few steps behind Bobby as we left our visitors. Although he hadn't invited me, I followed him to his room where I found him standing with his back to the door. I followed him in and called his name to get his attention.
"Bobby!" I shouted. Amber was waiting in Bobby's room, sitting on the window sill, swinging her feet, crossed at the ankle. She had a shit-eating grin on her face but she was blessedly silent.
His fingertips were massaging his temples. He turned to me and linked his fingers behind his head. He sighed. "Yeah?"
"Feeling a little tense?" I asked, moving closer to him. The pain in my leg had gotten worse on the way to Bobby's room. I went to the bed and sat on the edge. I patted the space beside me. "Come here. Show me where it hurts. Free massage." I paused. "With free Happy Ending. O.K., nothing but Happy Ending."
He sat down on the bed, leaned over and put his face in his hands. "It hurts everywhere. I can't hear over them," he growled, pointing to the corner of the room. "Everything is moving so fast I can't even think straight." He shook his head and looked up at me. "She doesn't trust me with you. Eames."
I looked over at him and frowned. "She just wants to protect you, right? Isn't that what partners do?" I asked, preferring not to make much out of anything Eames thought. Why Bobby was happily bogged down in the woman's opinion was beyond me.
"This isn't having my back, Greg. She's...telling me what to do. With my personal life. It's invasive. She's supposed to support me!" he shouted. "Shut up!" he shouted at the corner.
"So what? She knows about us. Were you planning to keep it a secret?" Amber continued to be silent but her grin continue to annoy me. Any minute I expected her to start harassing me.
He abruptly shouted at the corner. "I know! I don't want to hear anymore about it!" He looked at me. "No. I wasn't planning to keep it a secret. It wouldn't have even been possible."
"It must be that partner thing you two have going, right? She knows. And you know she knows.... Wilson is clueless, of course..."
"And what would Jimmy think about you and your new boyfriend, hmmm?" Amber cut in. "Seems maybe he didn't know about your sexual proclivities. Think he'll still want to sleep on your couch, House?"
I glared at her but bit my tongue.
"What?" he asked. "I can't hear. Nicole's going on and on about how Eames always gets in the way."
"She probably figures you can do a lot better than a serial killer and some lunatic you met in the nuthouse."
His eyes burned a hole into mine. "You don't know what she's thinking. You don't have a clue how she thinks. Don't pretend you understand this."
I held my breath for a minute before I replied. "You're right. I don't know anything about how Eames thinks. I don't know much about you, either."
"What?" he asked. "I don't care about you!" he shouted at the corner. "She thinks I miss her. She thinks I wanted her," he mumbled in my direction. "It was never what you thought! You were a game to me! A puzzle! Eames never factored in," he shouted at his invisible tormentor. He stood up and walked to the window, as far from her as he could get. He covered his ears and stared out for a few seconds. "I don't care what happened with Frank." He shook his head. "Eames isn't accepting this," Bobby said to me. "And maybe she's right." He turned back to look at me.
"That was a quick break-up," Amber snickered. "Here you are, outed to your best friend, and nothing to show for it. But what else would you expect?"
I closed my eyes and looked at the floor, reminding myself that Amber was just my own brain -- the self-loathing, self-doubting, self-destructive part. The same was probably true of Bobby but he was lost in the argument with his brother's killer.
"I really don't care about being disapproved of," I said, not moving from the bed. I wasn't sure I could walk. The pain in my thigh was agonizing. Amber was snickering. Bobby was scowling. The pressure was building and I would have given anything for a couple of vicodin. I tried to breathe slowly, tried to calm myself and ignore Amber's chuckling. Bobby was standing directly in front of her, practically touching her.
"I care about Eames," he continued. "You're an idiot if you couldn't figure it out."
Amber guffawed. "Perfect. 'You're an idiot.' Are you going to take that from this loon? You're the one who gets to label everyone idiots and morons, not him." She could barely contain herself.
"If you were on the outside and Eames disapproved of someone you were dating, what would you do?" I argued. "Just give in? Or would you grow some balls and tell her where to stick it?"
"You're an idiot. He just gives in, obviously." Amber smirked.
"Shut up!" I yelled, sick of her goading me. I rubbed my leg, eyes closed, fearful that she was right and I'd misjudged Bobby.
"I'd argue with her, but that isn't what this is about!" he shouted. "This is too fast to be real. And it's too good to last. Better we separate as soon as possible."
"Better for whom?"
He shook his head and laughed. "And what do you think's going to happen here? If we continue like this?" He glared at me, challenging me.
"I think the same thing I thought would happen before visiting hours. My intention is to stay with you." I was frustrated and confused. Batshit crazy should have been an instant disqualifier for starting a new relationship. Maybe if I weren't batshit crazy myself, I would have realized that.
He walked over to me and slumped down beside me on the bed. He tilted his head and looked in my face. "Don't you see it's not possible?" he asked. "Even if we wanted it? It ends badly. It does!"
I jumped up, despite the throbbing in my leg. "Even if we wanted it!" I ranted at him, unable to hold back my disgust or feelings. I took a step toward the door and cursed under my breath from the pain. "I didn't realize this could happen," I said coldly, turning back, buying time so Bobby wouldn't see just how weak I really was. I needed a damn cane. Even more, I needed a bottle of Vicodin. "I didn't realize you could predict the future," I hissed sarcastically. "If that's the case, why'd you start this in the first place? If you're so damned omniscient, why didn't you realize you'd have second thoughts? Or is this fun for you -- toying with people? Did you learn that from your serial killer girlfriend?"
He shook his head and looked away. "That's right. Blame everything on hallucinations and mental illness!" He looked back at me spitefully. He climbed from the bed. "Call me crazy," he said, approaching me slowly. "Pretend my experience with myself isn't real -- that I perceive myself as omniscient. I'm a nutjob, you know. It's protocol to be full of myself and certain of my imminent failures." He was within inches of my face. "Let's pretend I know nothing. Let's pretend you're the omniscient one. How do you know this lasts? How do you know we're capable of making two hour commutes to be together? How do you know we aren't called into work whenever we want to be together?" He gave an exasperated chuckle. "I work over 60 hours a week because I have to. How much do you work?" He put his hand on either side of my face and leaned in to kiss me. At the last second, he backed away. "I don't want to hurt us both because I lost you. I don't want to agonize for weeks, drinking and contemplating the overall futility of my existence, because I miss you. I don't want to lose my job because I couldn't think straight." He went back to the bed and sat. "I'm not toying with you. If you believe that, you can go to hell."
"You go to hell." I turned away from him, unwilling to admit that he was right about our impossible schedules, the likelihood that loneliness, frustration and failure would lead to self-destruction for both of us. I felt sick as I attempted to limp towards the door, unable to storm from the room as I would have liked. Pathetic really, the absurd exit I was forced to make. I stalked out.